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PHIL O SOPHERS 



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The Stag at the Spring 
The Old Man and His Sons 
Quarrels (Verse) 

It Seems to Me (Verse) 

The Fox and the Grapes 
Flower Seeds (Verse) 

The Fox Who Lost His Tail 
Sympathy (Verse) 

The Cat and the Birds 
Song (Verse) 

The Field of Treasure 
Treasure (Verse) 

The Days (Verse) 

Spilt Milk (Verse) 

A , Country Maid and Her Bucket 
of Milk 

The Misguided Ass 
The Wind and the Sun 
The Way to Live (Verse) 

The Dog and His Shadow 
The Reed and the Oak 


The Hare and the Tortoise 
The Fox and the Crow 
The Fox and the Stork 
Sunshine (Verse) 

The Lion and the Mouse 
Strength (Verse) 

The Cock and the Fox 
The Vain Jackdaw 
Little Smiles (Verse) 

The Goose that Laid the Golden 
Eggs 

Wolf! Wolf! 

Simple Truth (Verse) 

Life and Living (Verse) 

The Miser 

The Mice in Council 

A New Day 

The Crow and the Pitcher 
Patience (Verse) 

The Cat and the Mice 









B HEKE was a stag (so Aesop says ) 

That wandered through the woodland ways. 

He ate the forage of the wood 

And found it plenty, sweet and good. 


At times he drowsed where shadows creep 
’Mid tangled brushes, green and deep; 
He seemed content; well might he be, 

So sleek and stalwart, safe and free. 


Now with all things well satisfied, 
A little meadow spot he spied; 
Among its shadows, still and cool, 
There was a clear and pretty pool. 


“Ah,” said the stag, “ere sleeping, first 
I’ll seek to quench my growing thirst.” 
Across the meadow green he went, 

And o’er the silent pool he bent 
To take a long, refreshing drink, 

Cool from the water’s mossy brink. 














But no! He started up instead 
With widened eyes and lofty head. 
Reflected in the waters bright 
He saw himself —a pleasant sight. 

He did not drink, but stood quite still 
In foolish pride to get his fill 
Of looking at his form, for he 
Was somewhat spoiled by vanity. 

“Ah,” said the stag, “to say the least 
I am a very handsome beast. 

No creature has such horns as mine, 

So beautiful, and strong, and fine. 

How well they balance, wide they spread 
From tip to tip above my head. 

If only all the rest of me 
Were half so splendid, I should be 
The envy of the forest wide, 

And mayhap all the world beside. 

But oh, alas, those legs of mine! 

Behold their thin and shapeless line. 

I am ashamed to look and see 
Such graceless things a part of me.” 




Scarce had he spoken his last word 
Than he in stricken panic heard 
The very worst of forest sounds— 
The bay of swift pursuing hounds. 

Quick as the light, off sped the stag 
O’er open places, moor and crag. 
The legs he so despised bore him 
Beyond the reach of danger grim. 

But, at the moment when he thought 
Himself quite safe his antlers caught 
In some thick brushes, holding him 
Fast as if tethered limb by limb. 




Alas, alack, the horns which he 
Had so admired proved to be 
The very parts of him to lend 
The means to his unhappy end. 

For, bound and helpless in his shame 
The pack of baying hunters came 
And bore him down. Thus, dears, you see 
The danger of such vanity. 

* * * 

Yes, let us in our very hearts 
Do honor to our humbler parts, 

For beauty too much glorified 
Is sure to trouble and misguide . 









































GOLDMAN 

andJiis SONS 

AFableiram Aesop 


T HERE was a man, respected, old, and kind, 
With six big sons who quarreled constantly. 
This grieved him sorely, and he sought to find 
A way to peace at home—where peace should be. 


He tried commands and kindlier appeal; 

He pled respect for age and home and name, 
But still they quarreled on and did not feel 
The least regret, nor see the growing shame. 


At last the father found a goodly way 
To show their folly and at once to prove 
That discord breeds a host of sins that prey 
Upon the works of peace and deeds of love. 












At once our good man called his wrangling brood. 

And taking up a bundle of short sticks 
Well bound together and of stalwart wood, 

Straight, smooth, and clean, and numbering just six, 




“My sons,” said he, “I want you each to try 
To break those sticks in any way you please. 
You have not strength enough, and I defy 
Your brawn to shatter or to splinter these.” 


Each son in turn tried with his burly might 
To break the bundle, but no jerk nor strain 
Could even bend the fagots bound so tight; 

No strength availed, all struggle was in vain. 


Then our old man without a word unbound 
The wood and gave a stick to every son. 
Of course, those boys without an effort found 
It easy to break fagots one by one. 



“There, sons of mine,” the wise old father said, 
“You see the strength of all united things / 
By quarreling you’re weakened and misled, 
And think of all the needless pain it brings! 













Stay bound together by the bonds of lore. 

And naught in life can hurt you and no power 
Can meet such might as yours. I pray you, prove 
The truth of this each passing day and hour. 

But, sons of mine, divided as you are, 

Unloving and unloved in bitter pique. 

You wreck your peace, and is it singular 

That you who should be strong are dull and weak? 
Oh, sons, let not dissension’s spell disarm 
Your manhood lest great evil come to you; 

For easy it would be to do you harm 

As breaking unbound, single sticks in two,” 










T HERE is no good in quarreling; 
There is no use in it. 

A quarrel only hurts our Hearts, 
And doesn’t help a bit. 

A quarrel is a lot of words 
And angry sounds that start 
The very worst of feelings in 
The middle of the Heart. 

Nobody quarrels if he wants 
To wisely use his wits, 

For quarrels muddle up our brains 
In useless little bits. 

A quarrel only weakens us 
And wastes good energy 
That should be used to make our lives 
More what they ought to be. 

Let’s throw all quarrel feeling out. 

You see, it really pays. 

Because our POWER can be used 
In lots of better ways, 





I T seems to me not only wise 
But always really well 
Just to forget what we have heard 
That isn’t right to tell. 

It seems to me it’s wise to be 
Quite careful what we teach , 
Unless we’re very sure that we 
Can practice what we preach. 

It seems to me, pie up too high 
Looks very great and grand; 

But I’ll not be ambitious with 
Two cookies well in hand. 

The fox may howl, “Sour grapes!” 

When they are out of reach, 

But my bread spread with gratitude 
Is better than a peach. 





T HERE was a fox—a sly old fox; 

A most ill-tempered beast was he. 
He had not had a meal for days, 
And he was hungry as could be. 
An empty stomach calling out 

For filling made his manners grim, 
And, being cross and impolite. 

Nobody sympathized with him. 


He hunted here and groveled there 
In search of food, but none he spied. 
The more he sought, more noisily 
His very empty stomach cried. 


THE FOM 
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At last his staggering footsteps led into a trellised garden where 
Grapes hung above his very head in purple clusters ripe and fair. 

But they hung high, where sun and air contrived with evening’s gentle dew 
To give them flavor and sweet bloom. Yes, thus those juicy clusters grew. 















“Good food!” cried fox, as up he leaped 
With smothered growlings, rude and gruff. 
His two jaws snapped, but never could 
That hungry fox jump high enough. 

He leaped again, this way and that. 

In far more ways than I can tell, 

And all he got of those fair grapes 
Was but a most far-distant smell. 



















Oh, yes, he was a stalwart fox, with muscles very hard and stout. 

But so much jumping, all in vain, soon wore the snapping beastie out. 
At last, convinced that juicy meal could not be captured to devour, 
He walked away and said,— 


plain to 
see those 


es are \ 

I SOUR* J 



Ah, foolish fox, we children see 
Into your mean, begrudging speech. 

You can’t say good words of the things 
You are not big enough to Teach. 

March on, old fox, perhaps in time 

You’ll learn the lesson good taste teaches. 
Don’t let your own shortcomings force 
You into harsh, unpleasant speeches. 




AT 


GENTLE word, dropped here and there. 
Is very like a little seed 
hat grows into a flower fair. 

For troubled hearts that bleed. 


A gentle, thoughtful little word. 

May slip into some Heart and bring 
The help that heals, and like a bird 
That aching Heart may sing. 

Oh, what a garden life might be 

If every day such seeds were sown. 
And oh, the happiness when we 
May claim them as our own I 






“WITHOUT ataii,jous follow bu the score! 

Mu figure ? oh, such dracdrulness «f line! 

I never half enjoyed mir life before „l 

1 lost my tail. Good: luck is surely mine.] 







T HERE was a fox; though sly as sly could be 
This did not save him from the sad mishap 
Of losing his fine tail most carelessly 
When sitting down too near a thoughtless trap. 
When he was well enough to be around, 

He sallied forth to make a little call 
Upon some neighbor foxes, and he found 
They didn’t sympathize with him at all. 

What’s more, the neighbors, without mercy, chaffed 
And ridiculed and impolitely teased. 

A fox without a tail! Oh, how they laughed! 

Of course, that injured fox was much displeased. 
He didn’t like such treatment in the least 
But hid his shame beneath a foxy smile, 

And then he thought (the silly, scheming beast), 

“I’ll fix the teasers by a little guile. 

Watch me persuade these animals to let 

Their tails be cut off, too; this cannot fail 
iTo make us all alike, then they’ll forget 

To notice that I’ve lost my precious tail.’’ 






So pleased was he with this most clever plan 
Concocted in his selfish, scheming head. 

That off he ran and gathered all the clan 
Of foxy beasts, to whom he slyly said: 

“I am surprised to see you wearing tails! 

They’re not in style, are always in the way. 

They weigh enough to make you run like snails. 

Come, cut them off. What earthly use are they? 

I wouldn’t wear a nuisance that depends 
Upon my wits to keep it out of traps. 

Cut off your tails! Be comfortable, my friends; 

Discard such trash with other worthless scraps, 
Without a tail, joys follow by the score! 

My figure? Oh, such gracefulness of line! 

I never half enjoyed my life before 

I lost my tail. Good luck is surely mine.” 



‘‘Hear, hear!” exclaimed the foxes gathered round, 
Who waved their tails and tittered all in chorus, 
“Hear, hear! When was such wisdom ever found? 

A tailless prophet surely stands before us.” 
















But wait—for then a sly old fox arose. 

That he was wise ’twas very plain to see. 

Yes, he was stiff of joint, but his sharp nose 
Was long and gray with guile and dignity. 

“See here, young fox,” said he, “it seems to me 
You offer us too many bobtailed lures. 

Concern about our tails much less would be 
If you were not so much deprived of yours. 

“We doubt so much your real and true concern 

That we will keep our tails where tails should be. 
For it is said that selfish foxes yearn 

For company to share their misery.” 






HAT word sympathy; a good word to hear; 

When honest and tender, how blessed and dear! 
And what does it mean? Not just what is heard. 
And what is its value? Not merely a word. 

True sympathy glows with love from the heart; 
With things cold and selfish it carries no part. 

It asks no reward; in serving it lives; 

In loving concern it ungrudgingly gives. 

Not pitiful words, nor quick-falling tears. 

Not thoughtless expressions of evil and fears. 

No—true sympathy goes not by the road 
Of keeping the trouble or bearing the load; 

But from its own faith it asks us to share 

The knowledge that we are in God’s constant care. 

It sees as we see, and feels as we feel. 

But thinking as love it hastens to heal. 

True sympathy is a balm to the soul 

Its love, ever living, makes perfect and whole. 





‘THECA'S AND THE BIRDS 

4H AESOPJaBEE iNWfyf 



O NE morning in May, 

Or maybe in June, 

The old rascal Tom— 
Old Thomas, the cat. 
Dressed up to look like 
A doctor and he 
Just fitted the part 

With pills and high hat. 



With great dignity and whiskers profound, 

He licked off his smile, and winked out a tear, 
And went forth to call on birds in a cage— 

Such nice little birds who chanced to live near. 



“Good morning,” said he, 

“I heard you were ill. 

My heart aches for you; 

I’ve hurried to see 
If I could help you 

Or serve you and yours. 
Command me, I pray. 

(Don’t mention the fee.)” 


















To hear Doctor Tom 
Express sympathy 
Would soften the heart 
Of a stone, good and quick* 
To look at his eye, 

His tearful old eye, 

Would make any one 
Quite glad to be sick. 


But the birdies just winked, and then winked again 
And said, “Many thanks, but you’ve come in vain. 
We’re perfectly well. See how we can wink. 

We can’t rake or scrape an ache or a pain. 





W HEN things don’t go quite right, 

Like washing dirty faces; 

When toys and books and dolls 
Are never in their places; 

When all goes wrong with everything, 
We SING—SING—SING. 

When rainy weather comes 
And many duties press us; 

WTien being good is hard 
And likely to distress us; 

When little disappointments sting , 
We SING—SING—SING. 

There’s nothing in the world 
Like pretty music stealing 
Into our little hearts 

For happy, wholesome healing. 

We clear up all that’s going wrong 
With SONG—SONG—SONG. 














A WORTHY farmer knowing that 

His mortal end was drawing near 
Desired that his last bequests 
Should be quite plain and clear. 

And wishing his three sons to know 
The endless treasure to be won 
By honest work, called them and said— 

“My work is nearly done. 

“My earthly goods I leave to you. 

And blithely do my old hands yield 
This house, my name, and treasure great 
Hid deep in yonder field.” 

The days passed by; each bringing good 
According to man’s wit to measure; 

And then the farmer lads began, 

To seek their father’s treasure. 

With pick and spade and furrow deep 
They dug the field of yielding mould 
But found no piece or semblance of 
Their father’s hidden gold. 










“Whew! That was work!” one lad exclaimed, 
“At least the job we’ve done is neat; 

Now that the field is ploughed and dug, 

We might as well plant wheat.” 


And so they did exactly that, 

And in due time the good field bore 
A crop five times as rich and big 
As ever known before. 


And being lads of common sense, 

With gratitude and loving pleasure 
Each one recalled their father’s words 
About the hidden treasure. 


And having wits to match their hearts, 
As well as hands that would not shirk, 
They learned that treasure is not gold 
But fruit of honest work. 






W" 

T ? W 


EN things don’t go exactly right, 
And happy smiles are slow to come; 
When, somehow, spirits are not bright 
And satisfied with home— 

If we but do a kindly deed, 

Or lift some little weight of care. 
Or try to serve some one in need, 

Our pot of gold is there. 


W'hen disappointment hurts and we 
Think joy will never come again, 
WTien blues are blue as blue can be, 
Amd ache just like a pain— 

If we will think of all the good 
God gives His children everywhere, 
Amd fill our hearts with gratitude, 
Our pot of gold is there. 

The rainbow is an emblem of 

Good hope, and we can all depend 
Upon God’s never-failing love 
Down at the rainbow’s end. 

So, let a rainbow leave the glow 

Of treasure in the heart, for where 
God’s promise is, we surely know 
Our pot of gold is there. 

& 





S OME days are bright 
With light and sun; 
Some days are full 
Of joy and fun, 

Some days are dark, 
With clouds and rain; 
And some days bring 
The sting of pain. 
God makes up Time 
By days and days, 
And gives them all 
Quite diff’rent ways; 
If God should make 
Sun and no rain, 

Or endless fun 
Without a pain, 

It would be hard 
For us to see 
How good the sun 
And health can be. 
Yes, days are just 
Like us, for we 
All act and live 
Quite diff’rently. 






W HY mourn about the “might have been’s”? 
The present joy is best. 

Show grateful hearts for what we have. 


The dear God does the rest. 

Why cry for what we haven’t, when 
Each blessed, passing minute 
Is full of things to make us glad 
Of every second in it? 

Why whine, or fret for this and that? 

Why make a spoiling spot 
Upon the lovely things we have? 

Oh, we have such a lot! 

Why let complaint and discontent 
Make any shadow-scar 
Across the sunshine of the heart 
Where all true blessings are? 

Spilt milk is spilled. We will not cry, 
For crying never sets 
A pretty scene for blessings that 
The dear God ne’er forgets. 






A FABLE FROM AtSOP MADE INTO 
A MAYTIME SONG 



T UM-te-tiddle-ee-tum-ta-ray! 

A country maid on the broad highway— 
Her cheeks were roses, her hair was gold; 
Her lips were cherries, so I’ve been told. 

But a thoughtless maid and a vain was she, 

A foolish maid as you soon shall see. 

And this was all in the month of May 
Tum-te-tiddle-ee-tum-ta-ray! 


Tum-te-tiddle-ee-tum-ta-ray! 

These are the vanities she did say— 
“I’ll sell my milk for money and then 
I’ll buy me eggs and a setting hen. 

When they are hatched I’ll feed them so 
Both big and fat my chickens will grow. 
I’ll sell them all on a market day.” 
Tum-te-tiddle-ee-tum-ta-ray! 


Tum-te-tiddle-ee-tum-ta-ray! 

This country maid was giddy and gay. 
A pail of milk on her head she bore. 
All fresh and sweet; a gallon or more. 
The gallon of milk was hers to sell. 
But she was silly, so I’ve heard tell. 
And this was all on a pleasant day. 
Tum-te-tiddle-ee-tum-ta-ray! 





T um-te-tiddle-ee-tum-ta-ray! 

“The pounds and shillings and pence will pay 
For satin shoes and a gown of silk, 

A bonnet with feathers as white as milk. 

To town, on a market day I’ll fare. 

At me and my beauty the lads will stare. 

But I’ll toss my head as I turn away.” 
Yum-te-tiddle-ee-tum-ta-ray! 

Tum-te-tiddle-ee-tum-ta-ray! 

She tossed her head in the month of May. 

The milk she bore went a-splash alas. 

All over the road and the May time grass. 

Gone were the eggs and the chickens and gown, 
Alack! for the jaunt to the market town. 

She counted her chickens too soon that day. 
Tum-te-tiddle-ee-tum-ta-ray! 


































* 



The MISGUIDED 


AN AESOP FABIE\ 
IN RHYME • ) 


ASSC 


HERE was a donkey beast who said, 

T “Why doesn’t master cuddle me 3 

And give me food from his own hand. 
And let me sit upon his knee? 


That woolly little dog of his 

Hoes anything the creature pleases: 
The master laughs at barks and wags 
And chuckles when the canine sneezes. 
That man’s neglect most surely is 
Insulting to a noble ass. 

Ha! why should I in silence let 
Such folly uncorrected pass?” 


One day the master settled down 
For solid comfort in his chair. 

When in the room the donkey pranced 
With snorts and brays that rent the air. 


So, donkey beast resolved forthwith 
To imitate the dog and see 
How great a household favorite 

An ass with dog-like ways might be. 












































He gambolled, kicking up his heels; 

He brayed some more with all his might 
Until his master nearly died 

With laughter at the funny sight. 


Not satisfied with this, the ass 
Got more familiar, if you please. 

And put both of his awkward hoofs 
Upon the good man’s worthy knees. 

He even strove to bark a bit, 

Then, (oh, that most misguided chap,) 
Proceeded very friskily 

To jump into his master’s lap! 

“Help!” cried the man, “a joke like this 
Is going just too far, I say. 

Help, stable boys, or any one! 

Come, drive this wretched beast away.” 





























The servants gathered by the score 
And whacked that foolish donkey till 
His feelings and his hide were sore. 


Most thankful was that donkey beast 
At finding that his legs were able 
To take him soon and safely to 

His erstwhile home —the donkey stable. 
Safe in his stall, with lots of hay 
That one-time frisky ass reflected — 

“In life we look for certain things 
And then we get the unexpected. 

’Tis best, methinks, to be ourselves; 

No masks are good as our own faces; 
An ass should always be an ass. 

We all have our respected places.” 





r | VIE Wind can rush and bluster 
And twist and tear and turn; 
^ The Sun’s far-reaching power 
Can wilt and parch and burn. 

One day, the Wind all prideful 
With mighty blowings blew 
Up to the Sun and said, “Sir, 

I’m stronger far than you!” 

The Sun in burning glory 
Up in his sky so blue, 

Said, “Sir, you are mistaken. 

Your statement is not true. 

I am by far the stronger 
And I can prove it, too!’’ 

“All right,” said Wind, with vigor, 

“If you can prove it— do” 

So thus they vainly argued, 

And neither would give in; 

At last they made a wager. 

Each thinking he would win. 





And this is how they wagered 
(Both chuckling at the joke)— 
They’d prove their strength upon a 
Poor traveler in a cloak. 

The one who proved the stronger, 
And he who won the bet, 

Would be the one succeeding 
By his own might to get 
The trav’ler’s garment off him. 

Amd it was settled thus 
With no more words or wrangle. 
Nor further heat nor fuss. 


Wind first began the tussle; 

He twisted, whirled, and beat 
With rain and icy torrents, 

With driving hail and sleet. 

The fiercer and the harder 
The mighty blowings blew, 

The trav’ler for protection 
His cloak the tighter drew 
Around his beaten body. 

Wrapped close from knees to chin 
He faced the windy buffets 
That tried to wiggle in. 

In vain the angry torrents; 

In vain each freezing blast; 

Wind could not get that cloak off, 
So, gave it up at last. 






MORAL 

Said Sun to Wind, “Good Neighbor, 
Excuse me if I say, 

’Tween force and wise persuasion, 
Select the gentler way. 

Calm wisdom is the stronger, 

The surest and the best; 

It lives and lasts the longer— 

And kindness does the rest,” 


Then, forth the Sun came shining. 
Dispelling cold and mist 
With warmth direct and kindly 
That nothing could resist. 

He sent his healing comfort 
And all his gentle glow 
Upon the weather-beaten 
And wind-tossed man below. 

No noise of strength or boasting, 
No threatening word he spoke. 
Soon, with a sigh of pleasure 
Off came the trailer's cloak. 







M AKE the best of everything 
That happens every day. 

Make the best of every one 
You meet along the way. 

Hope the best for your own self. 

Give all you have to give 
Straight from the very best of you. 
Yes, that’s the way to live. 








'%DOG 

^ and his 


O NE day a very naughty dog 

Thought he would have a treat, 
So, from the butcher’s boy, he stole 
Two pounds or so of meat. 


Then off he trotted hurriedly 
Across the field to find 
A quiet place where he might eat 
In perfect peace of mind. 


At last he trotted on a bridge 
That crossed a little brook. 
'Hie brook was laughing merrily, 
So doggie stopped to look. 


That doggie was a thieving dog. 
And thieving dogs like that 
Are apt to look around to see 
What brooks are laughing at. 


His stolen piece of meat was held 
Between his guilty teeth, 

As that bad dog looked down and snarled 
At little brook beneath. 


He growled once and then some more. 

His snarly face was grim, 

For there, beneath his very nose, 

A bad dog glared at him! 







Now our bad dog grew jealous of 
The other thieving chap. 

So, at the bigger piece of meat, 

Our doggie gave a snap. 

Of course, by snapping so, he lost 
His piece of meat, which took 
A journey to the bottom of 
The merry little brook. 

And all he got by snapping so 
Was what such doggies get— 

A merry sp lash from little brook 
That made him very wet. 

Then little brook with laughter shook 
Until it almost cried. 

And then it said,—“A greedy dog 
Is never satisfied. 

“And as for thieves, they come to grief. 
So I would rather be 
A little brook, quite satisfied 
With what belongs to me.” 


That other dog was bad as he, 
And it was no relief 
For our bad dog to notice that 
The other was a thief. 


For he, too, gripped between his teeth 
A monstrous piece of meat 
Which looked much bigger than his own 
And forty times as sweet. 















Tfie 


reed 

and-ffie 


OAK 


A Fable f r om 

Aesop 



O NE day an Oak Tree scorned a slender Reed. 

“Weak little thing,” said he. “We brave Oak Trees 
Stand stiff and straight to meet the storm, while you 
Bend down before the little passing breeze. 

Ho! stand and face the storm by strength of limb. 

Let might save all in times of stress or need. 

I do not bend; I never yield like you, 

0 silly Reed!” 































The Oak Tree hurt the feelings of the Reed. 

With shame she trembled, but she answered naught. 
That night a great storm came and all night long 
The Oak in his unyielding manner fought. 

But little Reed lay low before the storm. 

And when the Sun of next bright morning woke 
There stood the slender Reed unhurt beside 
The fallen Oak. 

The slender Reed then trembled as she said, 

“It is not always stubbornness and might 
Nor strength of will, nor fierce resistance that 
Endures the storm or wins the savage fight. 

It’s often gentle yielding, without forceful deed 
That wins us peace; I have the wisdom of 
The slender Reed” 












T HERE was a hare—a braggart hare was she. 
As full of boasts as forty hares might he. 
One day she met Old Tortoise as he went 
In his slow way, on his own business bent. 

With scornful kicks and friskings of her heels, 

She tried to show how speedy feeling feels; 

And furthermore, insulted Tortoise for 
His slowness which all speedy hares abhor. 



“Well, let us race,” said Tortoise quietly. 

“The prize five pounds—for five miles let it be. 
And, if you will most heartily agree, 

Let Reynard Fox serve as the referee.” 


The hare, with sniffs and very scornful smiles, 

Said, “Humph! Slow Poke, why not a hundred miles? 
But five will do to prove my strength and speed.” 

Thus on a race this funny pair agreed. 


Off went the two: Hare like the very wind, 

With Tortoise plodding steadily behind. 

•In steady going he put all his trust 

While Hare in haste stirred up a lot of dust. 






So fast that active, boastful rabbit sped, 

Ere long she was at least two miles ahead; 

So great the distance being in between 

The two, no sign of Tortoise could be seen. 

“Ha!” puffed the hare, “where is the lazy chap? 

I’ve time, I think, to take a cozy nap. 

A stretch of many hours there must be 
Ere that Old Pokey catches up with me.” 

So, on the soft and cooling grass he lay 
And slept a lot of precious time away; 

While Tortoise, ever plodding, plodding on 
With time to spare the long race fairly won. 


MORAL 


“Yes,” said the Fox, “Dear Friends, I hardly need 
To give a talk on boastful waste of speed; 

Nor will I dwell upon the foolish waste 

Of misdirected strength and wearing haste. 

We are more sure to win a happy goal 
And realize ambitions, on the whole. 

By going, going ever straight ahead. 

The swift in pride are very oft misled 
By boasts too great and over-confidence, 

And disrespect for others’ powers; hence. 

Their purses shrink and private feelings bleed 
When steady plodding triumphs over speed." 










[pQJ^fiZKZ 

^CRDW 

rA Fable tan Aesop 



O LD Lady Crow was very fond 
Of folly and of ease, 

But most especially she loved 
A hunk of tasty cheese. 

Not having any cash at hand 
(At least she’d not reveal it), 

Or knowing how to beg for cheese, 
Dame Crow said she would steal it. 

Forth to a near-by cot she flew. 

Upon a window-sill 
Reposed a piece of cheese, and she 
Just nipped it in her bill. 

She thought she was a clever crow: 

I think she was a bad one; 

And I can safely prophesy 
Her end will be a sad one. 

Away she flew and croaked in glee 
With her ill-gotten plunder; 

And all she croaked about herself 
Makes honest children wonder. 









“I’m very clever,” chuckled she, 
Perched high up in a tree. 

“At getting cheese with perfect ease 
No one can equal me. 

I am a marvel , yes, I am. 

The cleverest of crows, 

And I don’t care a cheerful croak 
If everybody knows.” 

With vanity and swelling pride 
She took her chuckling fill, 

The cheese held tight and proudly in 
Her pec-u-lating bill. 


Just then a fox came walking by 
(A sly, old fox was he); 

And, looking up, saw Madame Crow 
Perched high up in her tree. 

But little cared Dame Crow as she 
Observed that fox beneath, 

For she was safe so far above 
His sharp and shining teeth. 

She therefore winked one yellow eye, 

And held on to her cheese, 

And thought,—“I’m glad that foxes aren’t 
Experts at climbing trees.” 

“Good morning, Madame,” said the fox, 

In manner very sprightly; 

Then, bowing low to Madame Crow, 
Continued most politely,— 

“Oh, Madame, how the morning sun 
Shines on your wings and features. 

You are indeed most beau- tiful, 

The loveliest of creatures! 




All this most foxy flattery 
I hardly need to tell 

Quite turned her head and from her perch 
She very nearly fell. 

You see, when foxy flatterers 
With flattery get busy, 

Vain crows, and those with foolish pride 
Are likely to get dizzy. 

‘I have a perfect voice,” thought she, 

“And all the world will love it. 

Yes, I will sing for Mr. Fox 
And positively prove it.” 


Then Dame Crow opened up her bill, 
According to the law 
Of proper song and forth there came 
A most discordant—C - A - W! 
Down fell the tasty hunk of cheese 
Between sly fox’s paws 
And in a moment it was lost 
Beyond that beastie’s jaws. 


No bird in all the world is half 
So strong, and swift, and wise; 

None with such grace, and no one with 
Such fascinating eyes! 

Your voice must be as wonderful 
As all your other parts, 

I’m certain that the songs you sing 
Would captivate our hearts!” 




Yes, cheese, like opportunity, 
From prideful persons slips; 
Then scheming, foxy flatterers 
Just lick their naughty lips. 
Off trotted crafty Mr. Fox. 

Dame Crow but hung her head 
In foolish shame and this is what 
That fox with chuckles said,— 


MORAL 

“Ha, ha! Ho, Ho! You silly crow, 

’Tis very plain to see 
That 'wisdom leaves the head and heart 
When in comes vanity. 

Had you been satisfied to keep 
Your noisy croaking still, 

You yet might have the cheese you stole 
Tucked safely in your bill. 

But you let vanity deceive, 

And flattery undo you. 

I hope this loss of stolen cheese 
Will be a lesson to you.” 




max 

and the 


A Fable from 
Aesop 

A BEASTIE sly was Reynard Fox. 
Sharp was his crafty nose— 
fc A nose so made to suit his kind 
By Nature, I suppose. 

But let that be as Nature bids, 

A fox most surely is 
Quite justly credited with guile 
And slyness such as his. 

Besides his slyness and his guile 
And other traits like these 
He had a streak of cruelty 

Which made him love to tease. 



One day, when rather bored with things. 
He thought of Doctor Stork, 

A person more inclined to think 
Than waste good time in talk. 

“He’s said to be exceeding wise,” 

Thought Fox. “Well I will see 
If Doctor Stork with all his brains 
Can get ahead of me. 

Yes, I shall ask old Sobersides 
If he will come to dine. 

I need a little practice in 
A favorite trick of mine.” 

























That very day. Fox called on Stork. 

With manners ouer-fine, 

He asked with foxy courtesy 
Old Doctor Stork to dine. 

The stork was very much impressed 
By manners so polite, 

So he accepted with grave thanks 
And quite an appetite, 


Straight to the dining table. 

For such attention, Doctor Stork 
Expressed his gratitude; 

Not for a moment thinking that 
His host was mean or rude. 

Soup was provided for his guest, 
Served in a platter flat; 

Now how could Stork with his thin bill 
Eat from a dish like that? 

In vain he pecked into the soup, 

"Which being liquid is 

Extremely difficult to hold 
In such a hill as his. 
























So, hungrier and hungrier 
Old Stork grew every minute. 

As Fox lapped from his shallow plate 
And left no liquid in it. 

And as he lapped he chuckled, too. 

And licked his precious nose. 
Without a word of just complaint 
Old Doctor Stork arose 
And said, “I thank you, gentle host I 
I promise to repay 
With interest, the courtesy 
You’ve shown to me to-day.” 


Old Stork went home to mediate, 

Then with a bilious smile 
Exclaimed, “I’ll give that crafty fox 
A taste of his own guile 1” 

So then one day quite formally 
He cordially invited 
That fox to dine. Fox said that he 
Was very much delighted. 

The feast set out for Mr. Fox 
Was fit for kings to eat. 

'Twas mince-meat, very savory, 

A most inviting treat. 

And here is where the fun begins. 

The meal was served within 
A tall glass jar that had a neck 
Extremely long and thin. 

“Please help yourself,” said Doctor Stork. 

“I pray you eat your fill!” 

As down into the vase he thrust 
His long, convenient bill. 









Thus Doctor Stork outwitted Tox, 
Who slyly hung his head, 

And to conceal his feelings rose 
And most politely said: 

“A clever joke I’m bound to say. 

A lesson you have taught me. 

I must acknowledge, Doctor Stork, 
You certainly have caught me.” 
With no more words or further bows 
That tricky fox departed, 

Mayhap, not cured of foxiness. 

But certainly downhearted. 


MORAL 
The moral to this fable is 
With little trouble guessed, 

And is in Reynard’s very words 
Most suitably expressed:— 

“Some get their soup with tongues that lap; 

Stork by a bill that picks. 

Next time I’ll measure noses when 
I play my foxy tricks. 

In other words, it’s just as well 
In reckoning our powers 
To learn that other fellows’ gifts 
May fully equal ours.” 









T HE days are full of light and sun 
With just a little rain, 

But all the days bring many things 
To make them bright again. 

Sometimes the clouds fill up the sky 
And hide the sun awhile, 

But by and by the sun comes out 
With all the brighter smile. 

Sometimes our hearts are like the days 
With sun and clouds and rain; 

Our bodies feel at times the touch 
Of sickness or of pain. 

But let us all remember this — 

God’s sun is yours and mine; 

Behind our rain and clouds and pain 
We know it has to shine . 






A TIRED lion, after hunting lay 

Asleep beneath a great and shady tree. 
Then ran a mouse across his back and he 
Awoke with anger and abused dismay. 

In rage he rose and caught his tiny prey 

Beneath his paw. “Have mercy. Sire!” cried she, 
“You are too big to kill poor little me.” 

“Quite true,” said he, and let her run away. 

One day he roamed that very neighborhood. 

A monarch of all beasts he was and yet 
He hunted all alone in search of food; 

And no one warned him that a trap was set 
To catch him as he wandered in the wood. 

So he, poor beast, soon fell into the net. 
























Oh, how he struggled with all might and main 
To free himself. With angry rend and roar 
Upon the cruel net he bit and tore, 

But all his frantic struggle was in rain. 

The little mouse heard lion’s roars of pain 
And hurried up to pay a grateful score. 

Said she, “I pray don’t struggle any more 
Ajnd you shall have your freedom once again.” 

With no more words she nibbled at the net, 
Amd presently the monarch beast was free. 
The tiny mouse had fully paid her debt. 

“Ah,” lion said, “most truly wise are we, 

If in our strength we never once forget 
How great the might of littleness can be.” 













T HE strong and great should not be proud 
And laugh at those who may be weak, 
For who can tell but they may give, 

In time of need, the help we seek. 

We may be little, but perhaps 
We have the energy and skill 
To do what bigness cannot do 

With all its strength and boastful will. 

We may be big and strong and grand, 
Perhaps too big to clearly see 
The hidden strength in little things 
Or just how wise the small may be. 








O NE early morn old Mr. Cock 
I Flew up an apple tree. 

He crowed with all his might and main. 
For grand at crows was he. 

The sun was rising in the sky. 

The grass was bright with dew; 

So, Mr. Cock with joyful pride 
Called, “Cock-a-doodle-doo” 

Along came Mr. Reynard Fox 
And promptly noticed him; 

But he regretted that the Cock 
Sat on so high a limb. 




“Good morning, Sir,” said Mr. Fox, 

“I have the greatest news!” 

“You have?” replied the wise old Cock, 
“Then tell me if you choose. 

Oh, by the way, how do you like 
My cock-a-doodle-doos?” 





M Come down,” said crafty Mr. Fox; 

But wise old rooster knew 
When he was safe, and all he said 
Was “Cock-a-doodle-doo 1” 

“The news,’* quoth Fox, “is that the birds 
And beasts have all made peace. 

No longer will they kill or hunt; 

All horrid war must cease. 

From this day forth true brotherhood 
Shall rule the forests wide. 

Like trusting friends, we all will live 
And prosper side by side. 

Just look at me and you’ll agree 
You have no grounds to doubt it. 

Hop down beside me and I’ll tell 
A good deal more about it,” 


But rooster winked his wise old eye 
And cocked a little ear; 

Then said, “Now can it really be 
The hunter’s horn I hear?” 

“What do you say you think you hear?” 
Said Beynard, most politely. 

“Oh, nothing but the hunter’s horn. 

If I am hearing rightly; 

And come to think of it a bit. 

There are some other sounds 

That seem to me quite strangely like 
A pack of baying hounds.” 

With not so much as “Good-bye, Sir,” 
That sly Fox then departed; 

And by the look of his long tail 
He must have been downhearted. 




“Why such a hurry ?” cried the Cock. 

“Oh, maybe I was wrong 
About the peace of which I spoke; 

I think I’ll trot along.” 

’Twas easy for old Cock to judge 
By Fox’s observation 
That he was somewhat disinclined 
To further conversation. 

“Ha,” chuckled wise old Mr. Cock, 
“Our doubts of mind increase 
When politicians like that Fox 
Talk brotherhood and peace!” 


Mobal: 

An early morning smile should show 
The joy of friendly meetings. 

Our “How-de-do’s” should ever be 
The most unselfish greetings. 

The smirky smile that covers guile 
With dignity, beware of. 

When giving friendliness be sure 
It is well taken care of. 

When quarrelers talk much of peace. 
And foxes grin at you, Dear, 

Just wink a merry eye and say,— 
“Oh, ‘cock-a-doodle-doo,* Dear.” 







He was a very foolish bird, 

And called his kind the “common herd.” 
His vanity was quite absurd. 

To get into the social swim 
He started in at once to trim 
Those feathers to the end of him. 

(Oh, what a very silly stroke! 

The cast-off clothes of grander folk! 

But jackdaw didn’t see the joke.) 

Said he, “I’ll have a peacock’s tail; 

Such dress and beauty cannot fail 
In social matters to prevail, 

And give a worthy place to me 
In all the best society.” 





He turned his back upon the daws 
With haughty head and spreading claws. 
Defying Nature’s goodly laws. 

He was just stuffed with pride and so 
He strutted forth to Peacock Row, 
Convinced he made a pretty show; 

And furthermore, that bird believed 
He had the peacocks all deceived, 

And every social hope achieved. 


So jackdaw stuck the feathers to 
The place where his tail feathers grew, 
Then stretched his neck to take a view 
Of his unfitting finery. 

A shallow-pated bird was he 
As any one of sense could see. 


But peacocks are not slow to find 
A dressy difference ’tween their kind 
And those of other tastes of mind 
(Especially feathers worn behind) s 
So what could any one expect 
From peacock circles so select? 

That silly daw, so grandly decked, 

Was pushed and pulled, rebuffed and pecked, 
Until he was completely wrecked. 



On humbled manners sadly bent. 
Ashamed of shame , that jackdaw went 
To join his friends in hopes that they 
Had failed to see the foolish way 
His common sense had gone astray. 

But they, remembering that he 
Had scorned his own dear family. 

Said to him then: “Be off with thee, 
.We can’t endure thy vanity 1 
[Be off and learn to be content 
With what ye are and Nature meant 
*A daw to be. And then repent 
Thy sins of foolish snobbery. 

,And other ones of vanity, 

’Don’t try to be what ye are not. 
Plucked by thy betters and a blot 
Despised by equals—so just trot! 3 * 


fc MORAL 

, • With but few words we now are able 
^ To give the moral of this fable; 

So here are those familiar words— 
“Fine feathers do not make fine birds^ 



W HEN my heart’s a little sore. 

And ’most everything’s a bore, 

And nothing that I try is quite worth while; 

When I can’t see any fun 
In myself or any one. 

Then it’s time for me to smile a 

Little Smiles 


When I’m out of sorts and blue 
When I don’t know what to do, 

When my playthings are a cluttered, mussy pile;* 
When dear Mother cannot see 
What is wrong with her and me. 

Then it’s time for me to smile a 

Little Smiles 


If I smile a little smile, 

In a very little while 

I will drive away my mully-grubs and trials s 
Yes, I think I’ll have a face 
That’s a very pleasant place, 

Just because it’s always full of 

Little SmileSs 







-a** 



O NCE on a time there was a man— 
A greedy person who 
Was mean in every sort of way 
, And avaricious, too. 

f The more he got, the less he gave, 

« And stingier he grew. 



This undeserving man possessed 
A goose who used to lay 
With uncomplaining willingness 
A golden egg each day. 

No thanks she got for all her pains, 
And not a penny’s pay. 


But her mean owner, not content 
With all his golden store 
(Not even when he counted up 
The gold eggs by the score), 
Grew greedier and greedier 
Because he hadn’t more. 





















So, one sad day the miser said, 

“I’ll kill that goose and see 
How many eggs she has inside. 

A worthless goose is she! 

If she can’t lay more eggs a day, 

She is no use to me.” 

And so he killed “The Golden Goose” 
With greedy, cruel pleasure. 

And looked inside of her to find 
A lot of golden treasure. 

But that man’s disappointment was 
Beyond all thought or measure. 

MORAL 



Of course, he found no eggs at all. His dream of wealth was sped. 
His greediness and discontent had given naught instead. 

Good fortune was forever gone. The Golden Goose was dead! 




























T HERE was a boy who tended sheep, 
Upon a hillside green 
Where fragrant clovers sweetly grew, 
With cowslips in between. 

The sun was bright and everything 
Seemed happy and serene. 

But sometimes things are otherwise 
Than seemingly appear, 

For wolves attacked the shepherd’s flocks 
From forests lying near. 

And often slew the sheep and filled 
The folk with cruel fear. 

But this same shepherd boy was stuffed 
With mischief to the eyes. 

Which very, very often leads 
To mischief-making lies, 

As well as other wickedness 
That proper folk despise. 






































One day when all was going well 
And not a wolf in sight, 

When he and all the sheep were safe, 
And everything was right, 

He cried, “Wolf! Wolff 3 most lustily 
As if in awful fright. 

Up hastened toilers from the field, 

And friends from hut and hall; 

They rushed to save him from the wolves 
In answer to his call; 

When they arrived upon the scene 
There were no wolves at all. 

And what is worse, this boy whose mind 
Worked in this foolish vein 
Played that same trick a lot of times. 

This made his friends complain 
And say, “We won’t believe him if 
He calls, ‘Wolf! Wolf!’ again.” 








o 

' % 

$4 


But wolves one day did really come! 

“Wolf! Wolf! Come help!” he cried. 
But all his friends, remembering 
How often he had lied. 

Paid no attention to his calls. 

And so that shepherd died! 


CL&o 


MORAL 

The moral to this fable is 
A very simple one: 

We should not ever tell a lie, 

Not even “just for fun** 

For lies of any kind weave harm 
That cannot be undone. 

And as for jokes called “practical,” 
On friends or other folk, 

These are the meanest kind of fun, 
They almost always cloak 
A cruel heart, and in the end 
Just punishment provoke. 



W E always tell the simple Truth; 

We do so, for we love it. 

There’s nothing strong, nor big enough 
To get the better of it. 

A lie is like a shadow, or 
A wordy, windy bubble; 

It holds no good, it has no use, 

It brings us only trouble. 

[The Truth is like a golden robe, 

That honors those who wear it. 

Its beauty never shall be spoiled; 

No lie shall soil or tear it. 










LITTLE Smile is well worth while, 

A merry Laugh is sweeter, 

A kindly Deed in time of need 
Makes Happiness completer. 

A lot of Fun when Work is done, 

A deal of thoughtful Giving, 

Friends good as gold to have and hold—* 
All this is Life and Living. 





WVSS"' 



T HERE was a miser, shrivelled, hard, and cold, 
Who went each day to count his buried gold. 
This hoard was tied up in a bag and he 
Dug a deep hole beneath a spreading tree 
And hid it there. 



There was a peasant who 
Had watched his frequent journeys and he knew 
There must be reasons why that miser went 
With sneaking steps upon some secret bent. 

And so that person followed him one day 
And saw just where the miser’s treasure lay. 

He waited for his chance, then promptly stole 
The bag of treasure from the secret hole. 

That very day, discovering his loss, 

The miser was in agonies, of course, 

He raged about and tore his scanty hair, 

Crying aloud in desperate despair. 

(But we don’t sympathize, I must confess.) 































A passer-by, observing his distress, 

Asked him the cause; and then the miser told 
How he had lost his buried bag of gold; 

A villain thief had surely stolen it. 

Thereat he had another raging fit. 

MORAL 

“All,” said the stranger, “really, I can’t see 
Of what good use such buried gold can be. 

Your treasure brought you neither joy nor good. 
So why not hide a stone or log of wood 
Down in the empty hole, and then pretend 
It is the gold you never give nor spend? 

Yes, yes, a stone will serve you quite as well. 
And may be even better—who can tell?” 





















A BAND of mice lived in a house, 

Where they most freely helped themselves 
Just as they would 
(And really could) 

To everything on pantry shelves. 


With very selfish appetites 
They rummaged here and ravaged there. 
Most wretched blights 
On other’s rights— 

An awful nuisance, I declare. 

So Lady Housewife got a cat, 

A most successful mouser, too. 

With puss about 
No mouse came out. 

What were the ravagers to do? 




















That cat went stalking everywhere 
With habits dangerous and rude. 

Why, every mouse 
In that same house 

Would starve to death for want of food! 

So, in their trouble deep and dark, 

They called a meeting of the mice 
To have a chat 
On pussy cat 

In hopes of gaining good advice. 

So they discussed their troubles much 
From every point and awkward angle. 
They got some nice 
And strange advice 
But none to straighten out the tangle. 



At last a young, conceited mouse 
Arose and made this little chat: 
“Dear friends, I know 
And I will show 
A way to fool that cruel cat, 



o 







Now, I propose we hang a bell 
About her neck; then, by its sound 
All mice will hear 
Its tinkle clear 

When she is anywhere around.” 


Then he sat down ’mid great applause. 
Most sage remarks! A noble cause! 
Such good advice 
For starving mice! 

Such clappings of those tiny claws! 


But presently an ancient mouse, 
Who had not said a word before. 
Rose quietly; 

And thus spake he 
When formally allowed “the floor,’* 


“I think the plan is excellent. 

And doubtless our young speaker can 
In few words say 
What is the way 
To carry out his clever plan. 


In other words, it isn’t plain 
To me and other persons that 
We want to choose 
The hero who’s 

To be the one to bell the cat!** 


MORAL 

Conceited folks are apt to be 
Quick to advise with thoughtless chatter. 
But how to do 
And put thing8 through 
Is really quite another matter. 



A NEW day is begun; 

Before our watching eyes. 
Bright in the golden sun 
A day of goodness lies. 

The joys of yesterday 
Live doubly sweet again. 
But wrong is far away 

And gone are fear and pains 


Our happy now is bright, 

Plain is the sunlit way. 

Past is the shadowed night; 
Good is our new To-day. 

Now let our hearts go out 
Rejoicing; let us say, 

“We need not fear nor doubt. 
For this is God’s New Day.” 






A CHOW whose throat was dry with thirst 
Beheld a pitcher near; 

He flew to it in great delight 
And gratitude sincere. 


He tried to move the pitcher and 
With push and pull and puff 
He worked to turn it over but 
He was not strong enough. 


Crow did not whine at this hard hick, 
Nor did he even get 
The least impatient as he said,— 

“I’ll solve the problem yet! 


Into the pitcher then he looked. 
Perched firmly up above it; 
Yes, there was water, but indeed 
A very little of it. 

And then, the water was, alas. 
All at the bottom, too. 

He could not reach a drop of it; 
So what was he to do? 



"We do knock down all obstacles 
By giving them no quarter. 

I can find out an easy way 
To get my drink of water/’ 


Crow thought things out most quietly 
And then he looked around 
And saw a lot of pebbles which 
Were scattered on the ground. 


“Just what I want!” said Mr. Crow. 

He put them one by one 
Into the pitcher ’til at last 
The victory was won. 


Of course the sinking pebbles pushed 
The water up and up. 

So he could drink as easily 
As from a shallow cup. 


MORAL 

The moral, or the lesson of 
This simple fable is— 

That he who knows he knows he can 
Is he who able is. 

In other words, if we but know 
The magic power in 
The words, “1 CAN ” there is no goal 
This magic cannot win. 



P ATIENCE is the heart of wisdom. 
Patience makes the spirit strong. 
Patience sees beyond the shadows 
Into sunshine, smiles and song. 
Patience long and patience loving 
Is the love of God within us. 
There is nothing great and goodly 
Loving patience cannot win us. 







T HERE was a house quite overrun 
With many hungry mice. 

And so the farmer’s lady took 
Some neighborly advice. 

She got a cat whose appetite 
Of mercy was bereft; 

The cat chased lots of mice away. 

And ate them, right and left. 


Observing this, the last few mice 
On preservation bent, 

Got very busy and they called 
A mousekind parliament. 

They promptly made a certain law 
To save their little selves— 

"No mouse should ever go below 
The upper pantry shelves ” 











The law worked well as you shall see; 

Puss said in rage, “Oh, drat them! 
How do the silly things expect 
A fellow to get at them? 

I'll have to think the matter out. 

Ah, ha, it has been said 
That mice aren’t scared of cats if they 
Look really good and dead** 

So kit cat hung himself up high 
On two strong wooden pegs; 

He managed it so that he should hang 
By his two “hinder” legs. 

He was as limp as limp could be 
From tail down to his head. 

And otherwise he made himself 
Look oh so (< good and dead,** 











But these wise mice on upper shelves 
Were not deceived at all, 

For they knew that a living cat 
Hung there against the wall. 

And one old mouse (a sly old mouse), 
Popped forth his ancient head 
And in the most sarcastic tones 
With jiggling whiskers said— 

“Your lints are also upside down, 

If you imagine that 
We trust a living, or a dead. 

Or any kind of cat. 

A cat’s a cat , here, there, and at. 

Eye, tooth and tearing claw. 

We would not trust you even if 
Your skin were stuffed with straw. 



MORAL 

Once suffering from hungry cats 
We wisely shun and dread, Sir, 
A cat in any form at all, 

Alive, or *good and dead' Sir/' 













































